


Proximity to Power

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Surrender 'Verse [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Breathplay, Canon Era, Cock Warming, Consent Issues, Dry Fucking, Face-Fucking, Humiliation kink, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Pain Kink, Porn with Feelings, Rank Disparity, Under-negotiated Kink, dom/sub themes, everyone has a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 08:16:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11963379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Washington grows bolder and Hamilton learns patience, as together they explore the new and complicated understanding between them.





	Proximity to Power

Washington's heavy footsteps descend the stairs just as Hamilton is setting aside his quill.

The workroom is empty—the entire house serving as their headquarters is empty—everyone else long since dismissed for the night, the candles burning low. Hamilton has lost track of time, but he is certain of one thing: there are far too few hours left before sunrise creeps in around the heavy curtains blocking every window of this stifling workroom.

He pretends to review his work even as he listens for Washington's movements in the main hall. Creaking floorboards and then the barely audible click of the bolt in the sturdy front door. Now they are truly alone.

Hamilton raises his head only when he feels Washington's eyes upon him, and finds his general standing in the open doorframe. Washington is imposing in the candlelight, silhouetted by the darkness of the hall.

"Have you finished drafting the address?" Washington's tone is pure business. The careless and confident authority makes Hamilton ache to be touched.

"Yes, Your Excellency." He stands, gathering and straightening the pages. Finished despite the fact that Washington demanded the draft only _after_ the other aides began to disperse for the night, a task deliberately assigned to keep him working late.

Somehow it's no surprise Washington knew exactly when he would finish.

Washington hums a quiet sound of approval, and that alone is enough to make Hamilton's eager heart race. His pulse beats even faster when Washington enters the workroom and claims the sturdiest chair, sitting away from the table. His legs are spread wide, a pose so habitual it would not draw so much as a raised eyebrow from the rest of Washington's staff, but _oh_ , the sight does things to Hamilton.

"Show me." Washington holds his hand out for the papers.

Hamilton almost trips in his haste to round the table, and passes the tidy stack of papers into his general's waiting hand. It's a long draft, an address Washington intends to deliver to the troops to spur morale. It will be nearly as time consuming for Washington to read as it was for Hamilton to write.

Silently—gratefully—Hamilton drops to his knees between splayed thighs. Washington does not even look at him, making a convincing show of being already engrossed by the first page.

Hamilton tries to behave. He tries to remain silent and motionless, but it's a half-hearted effort. He is too greedy, and he eases closer, breathes a wanting sound. Washington casts him a disdainful look, and Hamilton stifles a helpless moan. Meets the withering weight of that gaze. Pleads without the benefit of words.

A moment later and Washington takes pity on him, reaching down with one hand to open his breeches and draw his cock out. Hamilton licks his lips, not at all discouraged by the fact that the coveted length is still soft. He is intimately familiar with his general's iron control, and he knows Washington won't allow himself to harden so soon in the course of this particular game.

Impatience sings in Hamilton's blood, and he moves forward, desperate to taste.

A second look from Washington, sharp and stern, stops him short. Rebuke flashes in dark eyes. It should not add to the bonfire already burning like a fever in Hamilton's blood.

But oh, it does.

Hamilton wants to beg. _Please_ , he wants to say, even though he will sound every bit as helpless as he feels. _Please let me taste you. Let me satisfy you. Please let me._ But words won't help him tonight. If anything begging will only make Washington deny him longer. He serves at Washington's will; Hamilton's own desires are irrelevant.

It's obvious from Washington's expression that he expects Hamilton to break. When Hamilton holds his ground instead, Washington reaches for him—tugs his queue loose and threads his fingers into Hamilton's hair, twisting into a cruel fist. The sting at his scalp makes Hamilton gasp, and he braces his hands atop Washington's thighs.

His lips fall open as he is guided forward. Simple now, to duck his head and take the soft warmth of Washington's cock into his mouth. 

There is only the faintest hitch in Washington's breathing to prove he isn't unaffected. His eyes have returned to the paper in his other hand. His grip on Hamilton's hair has gentled to something like an afterthought. Something careless. As though Hamilton kneeling between his legs—Hamilton's mouth wrapped around him—is barely worth noting.

The heat and humiliation make Hamilton's chest feel tight, and he sinks further forward. Doesn't stop until his face is flush with Washington's lap. His nose nudges the soft, strong muscle of Washington's stomach, his lips brushing the fabric of cream-colored breeches. The head of Washington's cock nudges distractingly at the back of his throat, but Hamilton ignores the discomfort, suppressing his gag reflex with the skill of long practice.

He is _good_ at this. And he knows, despite the deliberate show of disinterest, that his skill pleases his general.

After a short time, the hand in his hair disappears long enough for Washington to turn to the next page of Hamilton's draft, discarding the first on top of the table just within reach. The hand returns quickly, giving a brief pull at Hamilton's hair as though to reward his efforts.

"This is remarkably quick work, even for you," Washington murmurs. "And beautifully composed."

Hamilton doesn't move, doesn't even breathe, but the praise washes through him. He closes his eyes as Washington's touch gentles once more.

Washington keeps reading in silence, and Hamilton waits as seconds stretch into minutes, then into an immeasurable eternity. He tries to remain motionless, swallowing only when he can no longer suppress the physical necessity, breathing through his nose.

The first time Washington used him this way, Hamilton hated the stillness.

He has learned better since then—learned to appreciate the hum of quiet that settles over his normally frenetic mind—learned that there is as much satisfaction to be found serving in silent supplication, as there is in being violently used. It's almost meditative. Restful in its way, despite the fact that Hamilton's prick has stood stiff and neglected since the moment he hit his knees.

He has also begun to learn patience. Washington will not leave him unsatisfied.

For a long time there is only silence. Washington's hand remains gentle on the curve of his skull, disappearing from time to time in order to turn the pages of Hamilton's work. Returning every time, unhurried, thoughtlessly possessive.

Hamilton holds himself motionless, even when Washington's cock at last begins to stiffen—even as the task becomes gradually more difficult. Washington is sizable enough when he is at ease; as his cock thickens, Hamilton struggles to relax his throat, to allow the nudging head deeper by maddening degrees.

Above him, Washington's air of disinterest is slipping. The easy, even breathing has gone heavier, though the turning of pages continues. Hamilton opens his eyes, strains to look up despite his position, pressed close and intimate to Washington's belly. He's impressed at the general's impassive face, the stillness of his body, the stern patience when Hamilton himself is a bowstring ready to let fly.

Hamilton would beg for more if his mouth were not otherwise occupied. He cannot bear to wait another moment.

But he will bear it. He will wait.

He is gratified when Washington's grip tightens painfully in his hair, shoving Hamilton's head tighter between his thighs. Even though Hamilton's face is already flush against him, the slight movement forces more of the general's cock down his throat.

Hamilton gags but makes no move to retreat. He trembles beneath the strong, steady hand. Allows himself to be used even as Washington once again falls perfectly still and continues to read. The hand on his head is heavier now. Forceful. And Washington's half-hard cock is a significant challenge to accommodate, filling him uncomfortably. An awareness of flesh on the verge of choking him, making it difficult to breathe.

Hamilton's eyes sting with tears, and he blinks to dislodge them, feels them slide wet and hot down his face. There's no point trying to prevent them, when he knows just how much his general enjoys seeing him cry.

Washington begins another page. Shifts his weight in the chair—a hint of restlessness breaking through his control—and spreads his legs wider. His grip tightens, holding Hamilton firmly in place, as his cock swells harder across Hamilton's tongue.

Of course Hamilton cannot resist the temptation. He slides his tongue along the underside of the shaft, savoring the sensation, the intimate taste of his general.

Washington hisses and tightens his already painful grip in Hamilton's hair—drags him up and off with a wet sound. Hamilton whimpers at the loss. His chin is slick with saliva, and he has visibly dampened the front of Washington's uniform.

" _Behave_." Washington speaks the word as an icy command, but there is an inferno alight in his eyes. 

Hamilton licks his lips, and the inferno burns brighter.

"Do I have to find something else to gag you with until I am ready to make use of you?" Washington's eyes narrow, and his voice falls dangerously soft.

"No, Your Excellency," Hamilton whispers, trembling. Washington's thighs are steady as stone beneath his palms, warm and strong. He won't fight if Washington forces some makeshift gag into his mouth, but it is not what he wants and they both know it. The fabric of his own cravat is not half so satisfying as the choking weight of his general's growing arousal.

Washington quirks an eloquent eyebrow at him, and Hamilton swallows.

"I'll be good, sir," he vows helplessly. "I'll behave. I won't disappoint you."

"See that you don't," Washington growls, and forces Hamilton back down. Washington's cock strains fully hard now, and the head slides easily down Hamilton's throat as Washington forces him all the way to the root. "Do not move until I am finished."

It's an order Hamilton can no longer obey, even though he can see that Washington has reached the final page. He cannot breathe around Washington's fully erect cock. The hard length is too much, fills his throat too completely.

He tries to be good. He holds perfectly still for as long as he can, ignoring the spill of hot tears down his face. He maintains his position despite the way his body instinctively tries to gag and choke around the length invading his senses. Even as his lungs begin to burn for want of air, he _tries_ , clinging desperately to Washington's strong thighs, trembling more violently with every passing second. Choking harder as the need to breathe grows more urgent.

He knows full well that Washington enjoys feeling him struggle, enjoys the wet and abused noises escaping Hamilton's throat as he fights to obey an impossible command.

He _tries_. And thrills when, failing at last, he attempts to jerk back and _can't_. Washington's grip is unyielding and does not let him go. Washington forces him to a stillness Hamilton can no longer manage on his own. Continues to fill him and choke him, cock still shoved deep, deliberate now in denying Hamilton air.

Hamilton's head is spinning, his senses wild and overwhelmed. His chest burns—it _hurts_ —and he thrills at the knowledge that even instinctively and desperately resisting, he is not strong enough to defy his general's will. There are bright patches and shivering shadow encroaching on the edges of his vision now. If he doesn't draw a breath soon, he will pass out.

His cock is so hard he cannot think.

Washington can't possibly still be reading, yet he holds the final page in his hand at length, making a show of ignoring Hamilton's increasingly frantic struggles. Keeping him precisely where he is, helpless and airless and utterly lost.

It seems the last possible moment of consciousness before the hand in his hair drags him up and off. Hamilton can't see through the violent blur of his own tears. His chest is heaving, fast and fierce. His lungs strain in their rush for air, getting too much at once and leaving him lightheaded and dizzy.

He reels when Washington drops the last page on the table and then—casually, and without letting go of Hamilton's hair—slaps him hard across the face. The impact of that broad palm burns through him, and Hamilton's cock twitches in approval.

"You disappoint me, Alexander. All I ask is obedience, and you cannot even give me that."

" _I'm sorry_ ," Hamilton gasps, and it sounds like a sob, wet and shattered.

Washington slaps him again, harder. The sting of his open palm ignites like fire across Hamilton's cheek, and he bites his tongue at the jolting force of it, tastes blood.

"I don't want an apology," Washington snarls, all pretense at detachment vanishing like smoke. "I want you to do better."

"Please, sir," Hamilton chokes. "I'll do anything, please—"

"Yes," Washington cuts him off harshly, jerking Hamilton's head back. "You will do _anything_ I command you to. You will allow any indignity. You are _mine_ , Alexander."

Hamilton closes his eyes, shaking where he kneels. "Yes, sir," he breathes, and the tremor is audible in the words. He aches with the truth of everything Washington has declared. There is no hurt, no humiliation, no shame so great he would refuse it from his general's hand.

"But for now there is only one thing I want from you," Washington murmurs more gently, a thin illusion of kindness belied by the vicious glint in his eyes. "A service even you should be able to perform."

Hamilton draws a breath, deep and shaky, and stares up at his general. His lips are parted, and in his peripheral vision he can see the slick length of Washington's cock, standing hard at attention. God, he is ready for this. But he is also not ready at all, because there is no way to brace himself when he doesn't know what comes next. Washington makes it a point to keep him guessing, and Hamilton cannot prepare himself for what he cannot predict.

He knows only that it will be violent. That it will be good. That it will _hurt_. Because Washington does not ever disappoint him.

He's still distracted by a world of possibilities when Washington drags him forward without warning, forcing the entire length of his cock down Hamilton's throat with a single unrelenting _push_.

Hamilton isn't ready. His quickest reaction time doesn't prevent him from choking violently, noisily on the invading length. His eyes squeeze tightly shut as he drops his jaw and forces his gag reflex under control.

There's no time to adjust before Washington is dragging him off again, then shoving him all the way back down.

It's a brutal rhythm. He half expects Washington to stand and really let loose—the angle would certainly be easier for Hamilton to accommodate—but Washington stays sitting. Steering Hamilton by the hair, forcing his head up and down, filling him completely every time.

Hamilton can barely breathe in the scant seconds his throat is empty, and he knows he's making an absolute symphony of wet, wounded noises. He can hear the slick sound of his own choking as his throat is filled repeatedly with cock, like a ramrod down the barrel of a musket. Tears stream unchecked down his face, mixing with the mess of slickness and saliva. Washington is panting now, with pleasure and exertion, using Hamilton without moderation.

It's agony. It's perfect. It sends an absolute tidal wave of pleasure spiraling through Hamilton's body, so suddenly he can do nothing to stop it.

His orgasm is not subtle. Even gagging on Washington's cock, Hamilton's fractured cry is audible, loud, impossible to mistake.

Washington stills with a frantic groan, entire length forced deep, holding Hamilton in place. He does not spend. He is breathing hard, panting breaths that split the workroom quiet even more noisily than the wet sounds of Hamilton choking around hard flesh.

The strain is evident in Washington's voice when he growls, "You insolent, disobedient _disgrace_."

Hamilton shivers at the censure, forces his eyes open despite the resistance of his overtaxed body. He looks up and up, meeting Washington's unforgiving glare.

He cannot apologize. He cannot _breathe_.

"How dare you?" Washington seethes. Hamilton tries to jerk his head back—it is not a contest he wins—and Washington's eyes narrow dangerously. "What part of _mine_ was unclear to you?"

Hamilton shudders with a heady mixture of pleasure and shame. He is spent, softening in his breeches, and even so his cock gives a token twitch to express its approval. Fuck, Washington is _actually angry_. And Hamilton is torn between guilt and giddy apprehension, as he wonders what his general will do.

He does not have to wait long. Washington isn't a patient man when he is angry, and Hamilton quickly finds himself dragged off Washington's cock and cast aside. He lands hard on the floor, on his left arm, his whole body curling in on itself as his lungs heave. He is gasping, choking, his throat spasming at his general's sudden withdrawal. His temples throb from having gone so long without air.

Washington is on him in a furious heartbeat, shoving Hamilton onto his back against the floorboards, wrenching his unresisting legs apart. 

For a moment, Hamilton is confused through the overload of sensation. He is still clothed, and he cannot fathom what Washington is planning. Surely he intends _some_ punishment, however ill-planned in his rage. He can't simply mean to rub himself off between Hamilton's cloth-covered thighs. What satisfaction would that possibly provide in the face of such ravenous anger?

Then Washington takes hold of the fabric of Hamilton's breeches and _tears_. Hamilton gasps aloud at the careless show of strength. Brand new fabric, tight and clean, and Washington has rent it apart as though the effort cost him nothing.

"S— _Sir_ ," he breathes, somewhere between admiration and protest. But Washington behaves as though he has not spoken at all. As though he has not just torn Hamilton's uniform to pieces and left him utterly, completely exposed in exactly the place it counts.

The weight of his body is nearly overwhelming, crushing Hamilton to the floor as Washington presses close between splayed thighs. The head of his cock, slick with nothing but spit and precome, nudges at Hamilton's hole and, oh, fuck—

 _Fuck_. 

Fuck this is not going to be any kind of punishment at all. It will be the best sort of agony, Washington taking him like this, _just like this_. Brutal and selfish and utterly perfect.

Washington has fucked him before. He's taken Hamilton ruthlessly in the middle of the forest near camp, and twice in the general's bed, several times more over the desk in Washington's private office. But always there has been preparation. Oil to slick the way, Washington's fingers tormenting him, loosening him. Claiming Hamilton, patient and thorough, though not at all gentle. And it has always been enough—Washington has never once left him unsatisfied, has never moderated his strength or measured his thrusts once he begins fucking Hamilton in earnest—but this is different. This is _more_.

The thing is, Hamilton does not simply _ask_ Washington for the new things he craves between them. Not until he is out of patience. He would rather wait—would rather his general simply _take_ —would rather allow him to set the pace of this unpredictable affair. And so he has not asked Washington for this, has not yet begged to be _taken_ like this, frantic and not at all ready.

But hellfire and damnation, does he _want_ it.

He considers begging his general to wait—to stop—just to see if Washington will continue anyway. It is one thing they have discussed in detail, because Hamilton is too honest to evade his general's direct questions and curiosity: how Hamilton wants to put up a fight only to be overpowered. How he wants to beg Washington to stop only for his pleas to go ignored. They've even agreed on safeguards, a code that will end even the roughest of encounters between them. But Hamilton hasn't had need of them yet.

Safeguards or not, he doesn't know what Washington will do if Hamilton tries to push him away now. He is not willing to risk that in this storm of genuine rage Washington might take a more straightforward plea at face value and _stop_.

Hamilton has waited too long for this to let his general stop now. He will have other opportunities to fight.

All this flies through Hamilton's head in a whirlwind instant, and then he is back in the moment, desperately aware of the burning stretch as Washington breaches him. He clings to broad shoulders, feels Washington's breath panting hot and uneven along his jaw, and he is shaking apart as his general's cock drives into him. He presses his face to Washington's throat, muffling a wild cry against sweat-slick skin.

Fuck, it hurts being taken like this. It's everything he remembers and more. It's _too much_ and he never wants it to stop.

Washington's fingers are digging bruises into Hamilton's thighs and hips, his hands restless and relentless in their search for leverage as he simultaneously thrusts forward and drags Hamilton farther down the unforgiving length of his cock. Hamilton's body is too tight; even using all his weight and strength to ram his cock forward, Washington can't force the entire length in at once. Is filling him instead by vicious increments that leave Hamilton gasping, breath stuttering and fractured in his chest.

Hamilton's spent prick is well on its way to hard again, but even _that_ is agony, his entire body over-sensitized and overwhelmed as Washington does his damnedest to split Hamilton in half with his cock.

He knows the instant Washington is seated fully inside him, not just from the hot nudge of Washington's balls against his body, but also from the way Washington goes momentarily still. He gives a startled cry when Washington fists a hand tightly in his hair and _yanks_ , dragging Hamilton's head back, exposing his throat and his tear-stained face.

Forcing him to meet Washington's hungry glare.

"You are not supposed to be enjoying this," Washington hisses.

" _I'm sorry_ ," Hamilton says, but it's a lie. He is not sorry.

Washington breathes a disapproving sound, a low rumble that Hamilton can feel where their chests are pressed together, and then Washington ducks his head, mouth closing on the vulnerable line of Hamilton's throat. He bites Hamilton hard, sucks at the spot where his teeth have latched on, tongue sliding slick across trapped skin. Hamilton groans, arches beneath his general's weight. It's such a careless thing to do, marking Hamilton so high his cravat will not cover the bruise tomorrow. It will not be a subtle mark, either. Not when Washington is biting him nearly hard enough to break the skin. There will be no mistaking the bruising for anything but teeth.

Hamilton doesn't care. Especially not a moment later when Washington's hips stutter back, cock dragging roughly inside of him—pulling out just far enough to slam back in again. Hamilton bites his own lower lip, but it doesn't help him choke back the sob. It doesn't prevent the wounded sounds that tear from his chest when Washington repeats the maneuver, knocking him hard against the floor, making his entire body feel bright and alive with pain.

Washington's mouth releases him with one last lick at his chosen spot, and Hamilton can feel the deep bruise his general has left behind, throbbing beneath his skin.

" _Mine_ ," Washington hisses the word directly in Hamilton's ear, and then he is fucking Hamilton in earnest. Ignoring—or more likely reveling in—the hurt sounds every thrust coaxes from Hamilton's throat. Both of Washington's hands are gripping his thighs again, grasping tight, keeping him pinned, holding him fiercely still beneath the onslaught.

Hamilton groans, gasps, cries aloud at the rough use. In all his years courting such treatment from his bed partners, no one has ever quite so thoroughly given him exactly what he wants.

It's a wonder Washington lasts so long, considering how close he must have been from Hamilton's mouth. But now they are here on the floor, and Washington seems determined to get his fill of whatever this has become. Washington's anger has ignited into something else, and Hamilton clings to him. He does not want this to end.

Eventually Washington stills. His weight is crushing, his cock buried deep in the vice of Hamilton's bruised and aching body, and the sound he breathes— 

God, Hamilton has heard Washington orgasm dozens of times, and this sound still goes straight to his prick. It's a low groan of satisfaction, almost a growl, and there's no mistaking the possessive heat burning beneath the sound.

There's a moment—a cruel, helpless moment—where he doesn't think Washington will allow him any release of his own.The stillness following Washington's completion is deliberate, and perhaps _this_ will be his punishment. Perhaps Washington will leave him like this, aching and unspent. Hamilton certainly deserves that and worse.

But the fear lasts a moment only, and then Washington is moving on top of him—is reaching for Hamilton's cock even as Washington's softening length withdraws. Hamilton sobs when strong fingers curl around him. He wants nothing more than to thrust up into the offered touch—but he can't. He is too exhausted, and too hurt, and his body refuses to cooperate.

"It's all right, my boy." Washington's lips brush the shell of his ear. Forgiveness and benediction. "I've got you." Then Washington braces one arm on the ground beside Hamilton's head, pushes himself up just far enough to watch Hamilton's face, and gives a firm stroke.

Hamilton's eyes fall shut as another sob shakes through him, and Washington strokes him again. Again. Sets a fast pace, grip firm and just this side of too hard.

There's no way Hamilton can last. A dozen strokes maybe, certainly no more, and he spends across his general's fingers.

It's an eternity before Hamilton manages to open his eyes. When he does, he finds his general watching him warmly. The anger is gone, any last traces vanishing as Washington leans down to take Hamilton's mouth in an alarmingly tender kiss.

When Washington draws back, there is a faint shadow of worry in his eyes. Hamilton recognizes the expression. Washington only ever wears it when he fears he has overstepped the bounds of this dangerous understanding between them.

"Are you all right?" Washington makes no move to climb off of Hamilton. He is learning.

"I'm better than all right," Hamilton groans, stretching beneath Washington's pinning weight. "I'm _glorious_."

Washington blinks and for a moment looks like he can't decide whether to laugh or agree. He pushes himself up off of Hamilton instead of doing either, rising to kneel upright between Hamilton's legs. Tucking his cock away and putting his own clothing to rights.

"Can you stand?" Washington asks, though the worry has faded.

"Probably not," Hamilton admits, making no effort at all to mask his satisfaction. If he were a cat, he would be purring. Everything hurts in the most delicious ways, and he will have to spend the remainder of the night in Washington's bed. He cannot return to his own place among the other aides like this.

Washington gives a snort that sounds suspiciously like amusement, but his expression is still serious as he takes in the sight of his right hand man, thoroughly fucked and debauched. Gentle fingers reach down to trace the throbbing bruise at Hamilton's throat. After a handful of seconds they press harder, just enough to be uncomfortable.

Hamilton draws a shuddery breath.

"I should not have done this," Washington murmurs, and it's not clear if he means the bite or the whole of what he has just inflicted on his chief of staff. "It was ill-considered."

Hamilton hums, arching his neck, preening beneath the touch. "I will beg you to do it again."

Washington inhales sharply. Presses harder at the bruise. The dull pulse of pain makes Hamilton hiss air between his teeth.

Then Washington draws his hand away, and his gaze falls lower. Tracking the length of Hamilton's body, taking in the torn state of his uniform. Finally stopping between his legs.

A moment's pause and then Washington's hand follows the path of his gaze, reaches to touch the sensitive place between Hamilton's thighs. Hamilton shivers, legs moving instinctively—unsuccessfully—to close as Washington's touch lingers, playing over his aching hole.

"I hurt you." Washington does not withdraw his touch—instead dips two fingertips inside—belying the last vestiges of concern.

" _Yes_ ," Hamilton moans, too exhausted to cry out at the intrusion, or to do anything at all besides lie pliant for his general's explorations.

"It was too much," Washington protests, though his fingers only sink deeper. "You are bleeding, Alexander."

" _Good_ ," Hamilton groans, helpless and overwhelmed. He feels drunk and giddy and sated. If there is a heaven, it feels like this.

Washington's brow furrows, turning his expression almost cross despite the way he twists his fingers even farther into Hamilton's well-used body, sinking them all the way to the final knuckle and eliciting a startled gasp.

"I will be perfectly fine tomorrow," Hamilton says. His tongue is sluggish, fatigue creeping toward him, closing in harder upon him with every moment.

"You will not," Washington observes with dry affection. He is belatedly gentle as he withdraws his fingers from Hamilton's ass. "You will be _days_ in recovering from what I've done to you tonight. How will you do your work when you can't even sit at the table?"

"I will stand at the mantle."

"You cannot. The others will ask _why_ you do not sit."

"Then I will work at other tasks." He should share Washington's concern. They can't afford to be reckless—they will _both_ be ruined if they are discovered. But at present Hamilton can't bring himself to care. "Or if there are no other tasks, then I will declare myself under the weather and keep to my bedroll."

Washington huffs a skeptical sound, for which Hamilton can't fault him. Neither of them will believe any possibility that involves Hamilton pausing his work.

"Perhaps I _will_ sit," Hamilton says. "Discomfort has never stopped me writing before. Why should it now?"

"You are impossible," Washington informs him, but there is affection in the pronouncement. Hamilton's face warms with the praise disguised as censure.

"Thank you, Your Excellency."

"Come." Washington reaches for him, guiding him up from the floor. "You will sleep in my bed tonight. We will have to find some ruse to sneak you out come morning."

"And a new uniform," Hamilton points out through the contented fog in his brain.

Washington barely pauses. "Yes. I will see to that as well."

"Thank you, sir."

"Do not thank me yet, my boy." Washington's voice is a low rumble in Hamilton's ear. "You don't know what further demands I might make of you tonight."

"Anything," Hamilton groans as Washington hooks an arm around his waist and hoists him to his feet.

"Yes," Washington murmurs, turning them toward the hall. "So I gathered."

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Washington does not intend to eavesdrop. He is not prone to sneaking, and certainly not prone to listening in on conversations when there's no strategic information to be gleaned. But he is at the top of the stairs, ready to make his way out of doors to oversee his troops. Morning has rushed past him in a blur of correspondence and intelligence reports, and while it is only early afternoon, he knows from experience just how quickly the day's remaining hours will vanish.

He pauses at the sound of voices—at the sound of John Laurens in particular, speaking low at the base of the stairs.

"—s quite an eloquent bruise, Alexander."

There's a quiet scuffle and a snort of laughter, and Washington can picture it even without being able to see from his position above. He's witnessed the two boys' casual roughhousing, the thoughtless touches they exchange when they are together. Laurens has almost certainly just touched the vivid bruise Washington left at the side of Hamilton's throat—the unmistakable imprint of teeth—and Hamilton has swatted the hand away, probably giving his companion a playful shove in the process.

Washington tamps down the possessive jealousy that inevitably flares inside him when _anyone_ touches his Alexander. He is being a ridiculous old man. Hamilton has given no cause to doubt his devotion, and even if he had—Washington can growl the pronouncement a thousand times, but Hamilton will still not truly be _his_.

Perhaps that is why he uses Hamilton so brutally. Perhaps it's not solely because Hamilton craves such treatment, but because Washington needs to press ownership into his skin the only way he can. After all, it's not as though he can marry the boy. He cannot even acknowledge him without getting them both killed. It is a maddening and unanswerable quandary.

So yes. He is jealous. Of the affection Hamilton expresses so easily—so publicly—for his best friend. Even though he knows damn well he has nothing to fear from John Laurens; Henry Laurens's son is far too kind a creature to give Hamilton what he needs.

Despite the whirlwind of thoughts and jealousies filling Washington's mind, only a matter of seconds have passed, and he hears John Laurens speak again.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"Tell you what?" Hamilton retorts, bright and coy.

"What hellcat you coaxed into your bed last night, that she left you with such a battle wound."

Hamilton laughs, and the sound is so clear and light that Washington's heart swells. He can imagine this, too. The wild smile on his boy's face, the flash of teeth, the glint of mirth in clever eyes.

"First of all, I did not coax _anyone_ into my bed last night. I'll have you know, I was the one seduced."

A disbelieving snort is Laurens's only reply.

"Second, I wonder why you insist on asking questions you know I won't answer."

"It's cruel to deny my curiosity. You can trust my discretion."

"I have absolute trust in your discretion. But I still won't tell you whose bed I slept in last night." There is more than a faint trace of heat in Hamilton's voice when he adds, "She was a vicious thing. I've never in my life been so thoroughly used. Or so thoroughly satisfied."

"My _God_ , you are a deviant," Laurens proclaims in an exaggerated hush, but there's no hint of judgment. Only fondness and amusement. "No wonder you're moving so delicately today." Then, softer and more serious, "Do you intend to see her again?"

"I certainly do." The assertion is emphatic, fierce, simmering with low heat. "No force on the whole of this continent could keep me away."

"You are insatiable."

"I can't deny it," Hamilton says, tone returning to a lighter cadence.

Washington can't bear to overhear anything further. His chest is full of feeling, and it would be far too easy to grow aroused listening to his boy speak of him with such cryptic candor. How would he explain _that_ to the next messenger who mounts these stairs to find him?

But he has stood motionless too long to simply retreat the way he came. The creak of floorboards will give him away, and he refuses to be perceived as sneaking around in his own headquarters. So he descends the stairs instead, making no effort at all to quiet his heavy tread.

Before he even reaches the base of the stairs, he begins to speak. "Do you two not have work to keep you occupied?"

Both boys snap to attention as he comes into view—Laurens with surprise and genuine self-consciousness—Hamilton with a knowing spark in his eyes that belies the repentant expression on his face.

"Apologies, General." Hamilton sounds sincere enough. Washington does not believe the sincerity for an instant.

He glances at Laurens. "Get back to work." Then, turning his full focus back where it belongs, "Hamilton. I want a word with you."

Laurens and Hamilton exchange a glance, easily parsed, and then Laurens disappears into the workroom. Leaving Hamilton and Washington alone in the hall, both knowing that everyone will think Hamilton is in trouble for either his loose tongue or his loose morals. Good. Let them assume their worst. It will not touch anywhere near the truth.

"My office," Washington commands in a grim voice, and leads the way upstairs.

He has no conscious plan. No idea what his intentions are beyond the sudden burning need to get Hamilton alone.

He is being ridiculous. He knows this. Washington is a grown man, major general of the entire continental army. And yet in this moment he can think of nothing beyond his command over this stubborn, beautiful, brilliant, insubordinate boy.

"Is everything all right, Your Excellency?" Hamilton is smirking. Washington can think of half a dozen ways to wipe that smirk away, each one more delicious than the last.

How has he come to this? He had Hamilton hours ago, claimed the boy's already aching body just before dawn. He can remember so clearly the grateful agony written across Alexander's face, despite the slickness of oil easing the way for Washington's cock. He should not be burning to touch him again. But Hamilton ignites a particular madness in his blood, and Washington is helpless to fight it.

He does not _want_ to fight it.

He can't bend Hamilton over his desk the way he desperately wants to—not without inspiring suspicion when Hamilton returns to work moving even more gingerly than before—never mind that Washington has already used him far too thoroughly, and Hamilton needs time to _heal_.

"Lock the door," he says anyway.

Hamilton obeys, has barely set the latch before Washington is upon him, dragging Hamilton against him and burying his face in the soft skin of Hamilton's throat. Lord he wants to kiss his boy, harsh and frantic, but he does not dare. The entirety of the staff downstairs knows where Hamilton is, and if he returns with lips bruised and swollen, this dangerous secret will be forfeit.

Hamilton is shivering beneath his hands. The boy is hard. But then, it seems Hamilton is _always_ hard, so sensitive and quick to react to the slightest touch from his general.

"You could have me again," Hamilton says softly.

"No." Washington breathes the denial with painful reluctance.

"Please," Hamilton whimpers. "I can take it. Please, sir, use me. Give me your cock again, fuck me, _please_ —"

Washington silences Hamilton with a heavy palm, pressing his hand hard over that running mouth to still the endless flow of words. Hamilton stares at him with wide eyes. Needy. Burning with lust.

" _No_ ," Washington says more forcefully. "I cannot send you back downstairs limping, Alexander. Your physical state is already suspicious. If I abuse you further, they will _all of them_ know I have been buggering you senseless."

Hamilton's eyes flutter closed in bliss at the blunt words, a muffled moan escaping his throat.

"My _God_ , do you know no shame?" Washington growls. But his blood is heating, and his cock is stiff, and he cannot send Hamilton away without satisfying himself somehow.

He releases Hamilton's distracting mouth and then—with unnecessary force—shoves him to face the door. From the pleased gasp of sound it's clear Hamilton thinks he has won the argument, that he is about to get exactly what he wants.

The boy could not be more wrong, and Washington feels a wicked smile stretch across his face as he realizes: he never truly punished his Alexander last night. Such rank disobedience, and yet the boy relished being hurt. Washington should have seen it coming, even through his ravenous rage, but he did not.

Today, in a calmer frame of mind, he knows exactly what to do. Knows how to proceed, to make Hamilton regret disobeying him.

The wicked smile spreads wider, and Washington unfastens Hamilton's breeches, yanks them roughly down. Baring the smooth thighs and the swell of Hamilton's perfect ass.

" _Yes_." Hamilton moves too spread his legs wider, taking an inviting stance. Bracing his palms against the door as he puts himself on blatant display for his general.

"You misunderstand my intentions." Washington steps closer and murmurs the words against Hamilton's ear, presses his chest tight along Hamilton's back. The proximity bumps his eager cock between spread thighs. "I already told you I am not going to fuck you."

"But, Your Excellency—" Hamilton begins to protest.

Washington covers his mouth firmly with one hand, stopping the protest short. He lets his weight bear Hamilton heavily against the door. His every sense is alert, lighting up at having this beautiful boy at his mercy.

"When will you learn not to argue with me?" Washington manages to sound idly exasperated despite the mounting arousal beneath his skin. The effort is worth it for the way Hamilton trembles, helpless and silent.

He allows himself a moment to simply enjoy the heady rush of power. It is better than any military command, any victory on the battlefield. He will never tire of this.

"Legs together." His facade of calm disinterest is cracking, but he doesn't care. "Tight as you can manage." Even _this_ is likely to cause Hamilton some discomfort considering the battered state of his ass, which means Hamilton will enjoy what is about to happen. But it isn't what Hamilton _craves_ , and denying him will be delicious in its cruelty.

Hamilton complies without any hint of resistance, and Washington drops both hands to grasp him by the hips. Bracing and holding him steady as Washington's cock—slick from his own leaking arousal—slides between the soft, tight press of his boy's thighs.

It's perfect. Warm friction and smooth skin, and Washington fucks forward hard enough to jar Hamilton against the door. The sensations are just this side of too much. He rolls his hips roughly, repeats the maneuver. Rides that tight space, relishing the spiral of arousal winding low in his gut.

It's so good he almost doesn't notice Hamilton taking a hand off the door and reaching down to palm himself. The movement is not subtle, but Washington is distracted, and it takes him a moment to recognize the heavier gasp of pleasure that reaches his ears.

And oh, that will _not_ do. Washington growls and lets go of bony hips in order to get hold of Hamilton's arm and _yank_. He grabs both narrow wrists and pins them to the door on either side of Alexander's head.

Hamilton groans a breathless, "Oh, _fuck_ ," and tries to jerk free. He fails, of course. Washington's blood sings when he tries again, when he twists harder in Washington's unbreakable hold. It is laughably easy to tighten his grip and prevent escape. Washington is holding on hard enough to leave bruises now. Hamilton will need the lace of his sleeves to hide them.

"Be _still_ , Alexander," Washington says in a low, dangerous tone.

" _Please_ ," Hamilton sobs, obviously struggling to keep his voice down. "Oh God, please, sir! I need—"

"I know what you need." Washington speeds his own pace. He is panting heavily now. "And I do not care."

"But, _sir_ —"

"If you touch yourself again without permission, you will not taste my cock for a _month_ ," Washington snarls.

Hamilton's whimper of disappointment is absolutely breathtaking. It is too much. Washington groans into the smooth line of Hamilton's throat as the crest of his own release overtakes him. His hips stutter to an abrupt stop as he spends between Hamilton's trembling thighs.

"Please, sir," Hamilton whispers when a heavier quiet settles between them. Washington draws a deep, sated breath, and Hamilton presses back against him. "Please finish it— Please touch me, _please_."

And this— _this_ is the moment of true satisfaction—and Washington lingers over it. Savors it. Does not speak for what he hopes seems a shattering eternity.

When he finally answers, it is in a voice of unyielding command. "No."

He steps back and takes his hands off of Hamilton. Tucks his softening cock away. Watches with vicious enjoyment the way Hamilton's hands curl into fists against the door, struggling to obey Washington's admonition now that he is free. It is painfully obvious how desperate the boy is to seek his own satisfaction, but he does not waver. Under other circumstances a reward would surely be in order.

But then this would not be a punishment, and Hamilton would learn nothing.

"Turn around, Alexander."

Hamilton drops his arms to his sides as he obeys, slumps back against the door in a posture of abject defeat. Washington drinks in the sight, suppressing an appreciative smile.

Even at the worst of times his boy is beautiful. But in this moment he is absolutely radiant. Alexander's generous mouth hangs ajar and his eyes glint wide, dark and clouded with arousal. He bears the painfully mottled imprint of Washington's teeth at his throat, visible despite the way his queue has begun to tumble loose. His chest heaves rapidly, proof enough of just how close he has come to spending without a hand on him. His cock is stiff and leaking, curving upward and partly concealed beneath the soft fabric of his shirt.

Hamilton's inner thighs are slick with Washington's release.

"You will have to clean up before returning to your duties," Washington observes with an air of infinite control. "You stink of sex."

Hamilton closes his mouth. Swallows thickly. Blinks as though trying to clear his head. "Sir?" There is an inarticulate plea twining beneath that one word.

"Do you think you deserve release?"

Hamilton swallows again. Admits in a small voice, "No."

"No," Washington agrees. "You deserve _nothing_. And if this is the only way to teach you restraint, so be it."

"Yes, Your Excellency."

Washington steps forward, then. Not changing his mind. No, if anything, he intends to make this lesson even more cruel. He will render his boy more desperate before leaving him helpless and unsatisfied.

He twists his fingers in Hamilton's hair, yanking his head back. Baring his throat. Studying the colorful pattern that is a perfect match for Washington's teeth.

"You bruise beautifully, my boy," he observes. Then leans down and closes his mouth over the same spot.

Hamilton sobs a wild, choked sound, arching against him as Washington bites down harder. Hamilton's cock brushes against him, and Washington drops his free hand to Hamilton's hip. Pins him firmly back against the door, away from friction and temptation.

For a speechless moment Washington's heart swells at the simple, implausible fact that Hamilton is willingly here beneath his hands. His to touch. His to keep, and to protect, and to torment. At least for now.

He straightens, drawing off with reluctance. He will never tire of the taste of Alexander's skin.

A moment's pause, and then he tugs Hamilton away from the door. Pushes him aside like an afterthought as Washington reaches for the latch.

"I trust you will not fail me again."

Hamilton draws a shaky breath and answers, "No, Your Excellency."

"You will not touch yourself."

"No, Your Excellency," Hamilton repeats.

"I will know if you disobey me."

" _Never_ , Your Excellency," Hamilton breathes. There is such raw vehemence behind the denial that Washington cannot doubt him.

"Good. I have duties of my own to see to. I cannot spare the time or the energy to guard you from your own worst instincts. I am putting my entire trust in you, Alexander."

"Of course, Your Excellency."

Washington pauses, donning his sternest countenance as he levels a look at his boy. He has Hamilton's undivided attention, and it is the perfect opportunity to drive the lesson home.

"Do not disappoint me," he says.

Hamilton closes his eyes, and Washington steps into the hall.


End file.
